


Pestilence

by timeheist



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-20
Updated: 2014-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-09 15:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1988478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/timeheist/pseuds/timeheist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In the embrace of the great Nurgle, I am no longer afraid, for with His pestilential favour I have become that which I once most feared: Death." Kulvain Hestarius, of the Death Guard</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to Shaun, who for reasons wholly unknown, has a mild obsession with all things Nurglite...

Damn the Emperor's name, but he was tired. More tired than he could remember ever being in his entire life. He could barely lift his head, his eyes could well have been shut for all he cared, and he was only putting one foot in front of the other, over and over, out of sheer instinct alone. On top of that, the only reason he hadn't dropped his lasgun in the dirt was a combination of thirty years of service and abject fear of the Commissar. A real bitch of a woman who every man in this Emperor-forsaken company both lusted after and feared more than death. He – no, they all were, they were all so tired, and she hadn't eve let the wounded stop marching, or slow down, for more than three days.

The Harmiston 2nd Company was a frakking mess, and after the battle they'd just lost, Colonel Lieutenant Pelmont wasn't afraid to admit it. In fact, they were probably as damned as they were – which was probably pretty far damned – because he hadn't had the guts to admit it to himself sooner. Half of his men were injured or dying, and the other half were ill and on the way to join their comrades. The few who'd somehow made it through the last melee – and worse, the accursed warp storm that had followed it, making it almost impossible to see and even harder to think – were demoralised and bordering on heresy, himself included.

There was something wet in his boots that he didn't care to identify, but it wasn't mud or water; he had no feeling below the knee of his left leg, which was just as well given the shrapnel still in it; and he'd burned pages out of his Primer to keep the company warm the last time they'd been allowed to stop. It had been one of the only intact ones left amongst the men, and the other was illegible with the blood of a young warrant officer with startling blonde hair, whose name he was ashamed to say he'd forgotten. Yet another sin to add to his personal reckoning, if he ever got to meet this blessed Saint Sabbat whose worlds they were supposedly fighting for.

Speaking of the Saint, he wanted to ask her where she'd been when the cultists had attacked. At the time, Pelmont had thought it was, actually, a trap. Everything had been stacked in Chaos' favour, it had almost seemed... divine. They'd ambushed his already isolated company so thoroughly that they'd almost made it look as though the Saint had been on the side of Chaos, guiding their weapons. And when he'd chastised himself for thinking something so callous of the Beati he'd turned his blame on Commissar Linlith, who were it not for her almost cloying peity he'd have frakked the Commissariat and personally shot for ineptitude himself.

After all, who had ignored the direct command, from the mouth of the Warmaster's men themselves, to retreat? Who had insisted that they stand firm in the face of the enemy despite depleted ranks, depleted ammo and worst of all in the eyes of a Commissar, depleted morale? Who had given the order to advance through the ravine 'for shelter' so that when the attack came they had flanked themselves so spectacularly that they cultists must have thought they'd gift-wrapped themselves for the slaughter? It sure as frak hadn't been him; that said, he couldn't bring himself to credit Linlith with the intelligence to have betrayed them on purpose, but who was he to protest? She, the pretty young rookie with friends in high places had the pleasure of being behind the loaded boltgun and he, the aging, embittered veteran who'd lost all his friends in the war had to make do with looking up its barrel and making his apologies. A couple of 'ave Beati's for good measure. Pathetic. Then again, she'd lost a hand in the fight, hadn't she? He couldn't decide if that was comeuppance for her or a far-too-late wake-up call.

No, because he couldn't say no to the self-proclaimed highest authority below the Emperor, he'd had to watch the twisted bastards clamber over the cliffs like mutated animals and had been helpless to command the retreat himself. He'd been a coward. The hideous, disgusting beasts had won, sure and sure, and now the men – running for their lives – were beginning to realise the folly of their denial. Denial of their loss, denial of the depravity of the injuries their friends had died from, denial of the taint on their minds. They'd lost the battle a week ago, and the last message they'd received on the vox had been a day later, and, frankly, frakking dire. Joining in the denial of the troops Linlith had shot the comm. operator and shot the vox set. He'd taken that to mean he should keep his own damn mouth shut, too.

They'd lost the planet, pure and simple. To make matters worse, an ETA for extraction was “not advisable at this time”. He was loathed to admit it but the best he could have done was to order the troops to begin the long march back to base that had taken them a week when they had the half-traks and fob them off with excuses. If they made it back alive, in time for the ships leaving, then the Emperor was less of a bastard and he was retiring, effective immediately. If not, Pelmont was washing his hands of the Imperium and taking his chances with the stranded locals and the dogs. If they survived he would no doubt hate himself but frankly, his faith was rotting as fast as his leg. His hopes weren't high and even kept in the dark, his men knew it. Not that they had a choice, either.

With only regret and finger-pointing to keep him going through the day – he didn't count the threat of summary execution, that one had become natural – Pelmont found his thoughts drifting to the opposition. Were they still tracking them? There'd been a few minor skirmishes, but not since the start of the last march, three days ago. Maybe they'd stopped being important in anyone's bigger picture, Chaos or loyalist, as soon as they'd been abandoned by the Imperium. If the fleet had already left them behind would the enemy take pity, or take prisoners? He wasn't sure which was worse. And what of the enemy's injuries? They'd given far from as good as they'd got, sure, but there'd been casualties on both sides. But the enemy had limped away as though they'd felt no pain, or simply didn't care.

They weren't human, and seemed even more vile than the worst that this crusade had ever thrown at them before. They looked human, and that was the worst of it. Under the boils and pustules, seeping wounds, rotting flesh and discoloured visages, they were no less humanoid than he, or Linlith, or the Warmaster. But were his men were tired, the cultists had seemed... happy. Proud, delirious, sickening... and what's more, his men were starting to look it too, showing off wounds like badges of honour because they had survived. So what was it? What made the bastards so sure of their faith, where his was failing? 

Pelmont stifled a yawn, hefted his lasgun against his shoulder and stared mutely at the road ahead to spare himself the guilt of looking back at his men. Just what was so frakking good about Chaos? The enemy looked half dead and happy about it! What led honest men to foreswear the Emperor and his Throne (admittedly, a point of view he was beginning to see the pros of) in favour of madness, rage, sickness and perversion (a point of view he certainly could not fathom)? What made them more lucky for it than the loyal, the just, the... frak, what made them so sure of their course? He knew he didn't quite care to be sure of his anymore. By any means, any faith, and any course he simply wanted to be alive, gone from here and done, with as many of his men as he could take with him. What-


	2. Chapter 2

“– was that?”

Pelmont snapped around, breaking rank and swinging his las around towards the sound of the noise with reckless abandon. He could have gotten a better weapon with his commission but he liked to be reminded that he'd worked his way up the ranks, and hadn't just bought his way into it like Linlith. But now wasn't the time to get reminiscent. He'd heard something, and as he'd turned around, seen it out of the corner of one eye. His gaze shot from the surrounding hills, anywhere that an enemy might hide, to his men, desperately hoping that someone would admit to making a noise so they could get on with their terrified exodus in peace.

“Did anyone else hear that?”

“Las-fire, Sir.”

“Frak...” Just as he'd thought. Pelmont hissed, then jerked his head and gestured his bedraggled, sorry mess of trooops back into some sort of 'position' before Linlith, taking up the rear, decided to shoot someone for putting a boot out of line. “Quiet, everyone, quiet...”

“What is going on Lieutenant?”

“Colonel Lieutenant, Ma'am,” Pelmont kept his voice down, doing his best not to glare too viciously at the too-loud Commissar, “and the men and I heard las-fire. I've put the men on alert.”

“On whose authority?”

Swallowing, Pelmont clicked his heels together and cut his tongue biting down a sarcastic retort. “With respect, Ma'am, the men are under my authority and I yours. It seemed the most prudent-”

“What is most prudent, Lieutenant,” Pelmont hissed once more, “is up to me.” Linlith hissed, rubbing the cauterised stump of her wrist and lifting her chin. “However, you have my blessing.”

“Thank frak.” Without giving her any further attention, Pelmont saluted and snapped around, addressing his men once more, “Because the enemy have probably frakking heard us by now, so we might as well engage.”

Linlith opened her mouth as though to argue and then shut it again, apparently thinking better of her actions. _About time, too,_ thought Pelmont, calling over the two nearest scouts with a flick of his wrist and nodding towards the cliffs. They'd left the gully where they'd been ambushed far behind them but the planet was dusty and wet, dirty, and there was barely any shelter from the weather bar the few caves in the cliff faces they occasionally passed in the strange, asymmetric rock formations that littered the plain. Though they were the only thing that had kept the men alive during the storms, they were also a perfect place for someone to hide; some of them barely fit a single person, while others seem to twist and turn for impossible miles too big to fit the space they appeared to be in.

Not only that, but there were the beasts. They seemed to listen to the cultists, or at least, had some sort of accord with them, but when his men came upon they were mindless and vicious, and as disfigured as their apparent allies. They'd lost more than one soldier who'd ventured into one of the rocks without backup and bled to death before they could even lift their lasguns to retaliate. They'd heard them from the half traks, on their way to the initial engagement, but they'd thought them only dogs, or wolves, what you'd expect to find in the wilderness... And maybe they had been, one day. Maybe they were walking, killing proof of what this damned planet, whatever it was called, did to you, given time. Contorted you, ripped you of your face, and thrust you back into the world a depraved shadow of yourself. Maybe it was already happening.

The two scouts were close now, quieter than he'd expected. He should be proud of them but he didn't have emotion left for optimism any more. The rest of the men – all thirty eight of them, at last count – who could still lift their weapons offered tentative cover, giving the Commissar shifty looks and avoiding the Colonel Lieutenant's eyes. They kept their heads down, and their mouths shut, which was more than he thought he had any right to ask for, but they were smart men. Terrified, but smart. He himself kept his eyes on the scouts, expecting the worst at any moment, until they disappeared behind the biggest rocks in front of the cliffs, dropping to a crouch. Half-heartedly, he made the sign of the aquilla, and held his breath, waiting for a sign... anything.

Twenty minutes passed with no sign, and no noise, not even the muffled crack of a lasgun. Just where were they? The lasfire they'd heard had been close, and there can't have been much behind the cliff, surely. He and Linlith shared a look, silently agreeing, for once. Something was wrong, they should have returned by now. Even the rest of his men knew something was up, though he'd let them stand at ease ten minutes before, urging complete silence. He roused them all with silent instructions, now, nodding towards the cliff face, and was about to order them to start moving out, leaving the scouts behind (some god rest their souls) when an unfamiliar armed figure stepped out from behind the rocks, and shot over their heads. The men ducked, shouting out in shock, but Pelmont nearly dropped his gun out of shock alone.

“Drop your weapons or I fire! I mean it, oath be as damned as me!”


End file.
